


King of the Deeps

by vonuberwald (macabreromansu)



Series: Barduil Multiverses [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Middle Earth Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-04-26 14:04:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5007559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabreromansu/pseuds/vonuberwald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merfolk!AU. Bard, a fisherman in modern Esgaroth, has known about the merfolk in the lake for a very long time, and is rescued after a massive storm by their ruler, Thranduil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So, I know next to nothing about fishing, so there are probably some very obviously made-up things in relation to that. However, please enjoy!

There had always been rumours in the town of Esgaroth about the creatures that lived in the deepest part of the lake, but only one man knew them as more than rumours.

  
  


Bard, descendant of the town’s founder, was intimately acquainted with the lake, being a fisherman and one of the only ones who ventured over to the furthest shore. More often than not when he was dragging a net through one of the deeps surrounding that isolated beach, he would spot a flash of fin and tail and, if it was an especially good day, two or three of the merfolk would pop their heads above the water to throw him a friendly greeting even if none stayed to talk for very long and never for more than small talk. 

  
  


It had always bothered him that he was the only one who would be able to stray this far into their territory and still be able to cast a net without his boat being overturned by some massive, invisible force - something that had always restricted others from fishing in this area - but it had a simple explanation really. It had only taken a pair of pleasantly surprised-looking merfolk greeting him warmly by his ancestor’s name, and the rest who followed suit until he had tentatively corrected them one day, wary of the consequences but not willing to risk their anger when they found out that he was not, in fact, Girion Dale. They were not angry at all, however, and proceeded to treat Bard the same as they always had. There also the unspoken agreement that he keep only to certain areas of the deeps when casting. Bard knew his trade and also only took half of what he would normally catch, so as to not damage the ecosystem there, although his boat was still a good weight whenever he returned at the end of the day.  So good however, that occasionally he had to put some aside in a small hidden compartment in the boat in order not to raise eyebrows any more than he was already.

  
  


Some were still jealous of his success however - the current Mayor and his lickspittle, Alfred, were the worst of them and unfortunately, the former had more influence in the town than he deserved were it not for his wealth and position, (which he had somehow managed to hold for more years than Bard suspected was really legal). So on more than one occasion, Bard would find himself with things missing or damaged, and some neighbours would even shun him and his little family or talk rather rudely and loudly about them. He tried to keep his children sheltered from the worst of it - thankfully none of them had had reason yet to get into trouble at school about it at least - especially his youngest girl, Tilda, who rather favoured her late mother but had never known her well enough to remember her much. 

  
  


It was all of this in the back of his mind that he cast off just before dawn one Spring morning with the intention of going to a part of the deeps he rarely visited although it was a haven for catching good-sized trout, the distance often deterring him from. The sky on the horizon was rapidly greying but there was still the hint of a storm in the air that made him decide not to linger for very long in that place before moving on to an inlet he could at least shelter in if the weather were to actually worsen. By the time he reached his destination, the sky was considerably lighter but the wind had not lessened and neither had the oppressive feeling in the air. His mouth thinning, Bard set to work.

  
  


*

  
  


It was barely midday when the storm hit. The gathering thunderclouds had made Bard's decision to haul in his catch early just in time for him to turn the boat around and head for the closest sheltered cove that would allow him to wait out the storm if not in comfort, then definitely safer than trying to cross the lake and make a run for home.

  
  


All things considered, it was a pretty solid plan. But halfway to the inlet, the engine of the boat sputtered and died. Bard, who had been keeping his eyes steadfastly on the painfully slow approach of the landmarks of the shore close to safety and unconsciously worrying his lower lip with his teeth, blinked and shook his head in shocked denial.

  
  


'Nonononono,' he muttered, voice rising as he tried and tried again to get moving again. Percy was going to kill him if he ever got through this alive and then revive him, just to say, 'I told you so'. Bard had inherited the ancient boat from his grandfather, and frankly _The Red Dragon_ was more _The_ Rust _Dragon_ these days. And damned if Percy hadn't told him time and time again that he could get his cousin to sell him an old but fully functioning trawler he had, modern, _life-saving gadgets_ included, 'for relative's rates now, so don't look at me like that'.

Only Bard had never gotten around to it, had been too nervous of the price, regardless of Percy's cousin's 'relative's rates' and now he was never going to-

  
  


He realised he was on the verge of hyperventilating, the grip on the keys in his hands tight enough to leave a detailed imprint on his palm, and took a shaking deep breath, and then another. The sky rumbled ominously overhead and his eyes snapped to the ceiling of the wheelhouse just as the first crack of lightning speared the sky, sending out jagged roots in all directions and throwing the shadows into sharp relief.

  
  


It spurred him into motion instantly. Getting out of the wheelhouse, he looked at the not-so-distant shoreline. It wasn't too far, he reasoned, although nothing he would dare if it wasn't such a desperate situation. The woodland was gnarled and knotted but there was sure to be plenty of cover in the roughage. It was miles better than being on the lake in _this_ , anyway. One look at the sky above and some way behind confirmed his decision and, tightening the straps on his life-jacket and patting the breast pocket for the comforting shapes of the small emergency flares in their hard waterproof casing and he clambered on to the side of the _Dragon,_ pausing a second to take in the sight of the rickety old girl for what would surely be the last time, wistfulness and regret in his eyes. Then determination took over and he plunged into the icy dark water and began to swim for the shore.

  
  


Somewhere, in some other story, Bard made it to shore without too much incident. Dragged himself through the clinging foliage of the woodland before finding an old, abandoned woodsman's hut, where he dried off after starting a fire in the old stove with one of his flares and slept fitfully through the night. And then in the morning, left the hut and began walking along the shore of the lake as much as he was able before a search party, (headed by Percy), found him and drove him back to Esgaroth, back to his house and children. In another story, life after this was pretty much the same for Bard, even if he never did find his grandfather's old boat again.

  
  


In that story, the lightning struck elsewhere. As Bard plunged into the water, he sank, water closing over his head briefly, before the added buoyancy of his life-jacket raised him up. When his head broke the surface again, however,  _The Red Dragon_ was in flames. Gasping caused him to swallow water but he coughed it back up and turned, striking out as far from the boat as fast as he could before the fire inevitably reached the engine.

  
  


He was only about three metres away when  _The Red Dragon_ exploded, fire and metal bursting with concussive force that caught Bard in its wake and he was forced unmercifully under the churning waves of the storm-bitten lake, struggling to claw his way back to the surface again. In his alarm, he thought he saw a strange figure under the water but it flitted quickly by out of sight and Bard was more focused on getting more air in his lungs. No sooner than he had managed to break the surface and harshly draw in a huge breath than there was another small explosion from the sinking boat, Bard still too close to avoid a flying piece of debris that hit him on the back of the head and causing stars to explode in his vision before his eyes rolled back altogether and he lost consciousness, sinking into the deeps.

  
  


The flitting shadow watched and then, with the same swiftness, burst into motion towards the drowning man.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahah, still not beta'd and also late. But it's here.

The storm raged on, stirring the lake into fearsome waves, echoing Sigrid's silent terror as she stared into the blackened sky from her bedroom window, praying for her father's safety. Bain and Tilda were huddled together on the bed behind her, finally, though fitfully, asleep. Da's friend, Percy had been only left as soon as the pair had been ensconced themselves in her bed and refused to move, and after a promise that he would be back in the evening, storm or no, to check on them. He hadn't seemed too worried about Bard, not to their faces at any rate, and had reassured them that their da was one of the best fishermen he knew and would have known to get to safety.

 

'An experienced man, your da,' he said, smiling at Tilda but speaking to all of them. ''e knows that lake like no other I've ever known save your grandfather and great-grandfather. Mark my words, 'e'll be warm and dry in one of 'em coves only 'e knows how to get inta.'

 

Her fingers twitched and tightened on the window sill where she'd unconsciously gripped it and she forced herself to remember that Percy was absolutely right. She slipped into her bed, thankful it was wide enough to accommodate all three of them without too much trouble, and wrapped her arms around her siblings as she closed her eyes, preparing to wait out the storm with them.

 

After all, the alternative was unthinkable.

 

*

 

Thranduil Oropherion, King of the deep lake kingdom of Merwood, flicked his tail irritably as he waited for his guard captain to finish her ministrations on her patient. Not for the first time, he cursed his lack of affinity for healing others as he regarded Bard's pale, still face.

 

He had merely been curious to see for himself the descendant of Girion that his people were talking about. Girion had been a close friend, once, before his visits to this side of the lake had decreased and then stopped altogether. Busy himself with various serious matters of state and the encroachment of the corrupted land to his kingdom, Thranduil had barely noticed until it was too late, and he had been informed that Girion's son now fished in the waters unaccompanied by his father. Less impressed with the son, Thranduil had never bothered to make overtures of friendship towards him, and vice versa, but allowed the continued fishing unmolested as long as he regarded the rules Girion had abided by.

 

Years turned to decades and the son's grandson had now come into his own, only it turned out there was something of his great-grandfather in him. Surprised by his pleasing attitude, many of his people had reported to their king that this one may be worth forging a closer relationship with. After all, the waters were growing ever more polluted and Girion had had some influence in the settlement where he had come from, so why not his son? 

 

So Thranduil had sought Bard out, only to discover that the human was in mortal danger from the storm that even now, battered at the cave from outside, the wind howling by the distant entrance. He'd sent a call that had reached the captain of his guard and now Tauriel was doing the best she could to mend his hurts. 

 

'How is he?' Thranduil inquired, trying not to let impatience colour his tone too much. The redhead sighed. 

 

'He received a blow to the back of his head, my lord, which, although his skull remains intact, seems to have caused a lot of bruising.' She turned to look at her king, eyes serious. 'However, I understand humans are supposed to be quite hot-blooded, especially compared to ourselves, and he is very cold.'

 

Thranduil frowned but before he could say anything, she continued, her own tail fin beginning to flick, betraying her own frustration.

 

'My lord, would it not be better to leave him where he can be found by one of his own kind? I have no experience with treating humans and having him here could prompt them to send out a search party where we do not want them to be.'

 

'I would make sure of his injuries before I make a decision. The storm is far from over and I fear what exposing him further to the elements will do. I have no desire to let one of my friend's line die unless I can do everything I can to save him.'

 

Tauriel nodded tightly, her eyes on her patient although Thranduil suspected that this was far from over. He restrained a sigh.

 

'I shall fetch more tapeweed for binding,' he offered and dove back into the water that led out of the cave and down into the black depths of the lake.

 

*

 

Bard woke up and immediately wished he hadn't. Between the agonising pain emanating from the back of his head to the stiffness in what felt like every single one of his joints, he almost passed out again until he heard a voice coming from right next to him.

 

'Oh, careful now. You're far from healed, mortal.'

 

Bard nearly jumped out of his skin and was instantly curled up into a ball from the pain of the sudden movement. When the stars cleared from his eyes and the agony had dulled to a throbbing ache, only then did he tentatively sit up, his hands touching bare rock beneath him, and look for the speaker.

 

Two things he noticed immediately. The first that he was in some sort of cave, and though there was barely enough light to see by, he could still hear the storm outside. The second thing he noticed was the red-headed woman sitting beside him. A red-headed, _naked_ woman, to be precise. Or to be even more accurate, a red-headed, naked, _glowing_ woman. It had him scrambling awkwardly to stand up, the movement abruptly arrested by her hand on his arm, the grip strong and very clear. Slowly, he sank back down onto the rock.

 

'What-?' He broke off, coughing, his chest and throat feeling as they they'd been rubbed with sandpaper from the inside.

 

'I am Tauriel, human, guard captain of the realm of Merwood, subject to Thranduil.' She inclined her head, her hair shifting. Bard coughed again and fixed his eyes on her face. 'What is the last thing you remember?'

 

Merwood? Bard let that sink in, certain he looked as poleaxed as he felt. Stalling, he tried to answer her question, but found only a confused jumble of images of fire and blackness and one very clear certainty that he was out of a boat.

 

'You, er, saved me?'

 

She shook her head slightly.

 

'I did, Master Bard,' came the answer in a low, male voice from behind him. He turned just in time to see a vision rise slowly from the water. The newcomer had long hair as well, though much shorter than Tauriel's, that was slicked to his shoulders and well-muscled chest. But it was not this that caused him to gasp as the other moved towards them. As he moved, scales of an irridescent turquoise shed from his lower body in the water behind him and onto the cave floor, leaving legs bare by the time he came and sat next to Tauriel, in front of Bard, who was wondering whether this was really happening or a product of a fever dream. How many naked strangers would you normally meet in a day, after all?

 

'Hail, Bard of the laketown, of Girion's line. I am Thranduil, king of the Merwood.'

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chat and some unpleasant revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crap, sorry that this is so late. So much going on. :/

Disregarding the gaping human before him, Thranduil settled beside him and Tauriel, handing her a thick handful of tapegrass. The mermaid immediately set to work, firmly binding abrasions on Bard's arms that he hadn't noticed in the shock of meeting his rescuers but which were making themselves very well-known to him now. When the redhead had finished, she sat back, looking him over with a stern, clinical gaze.

 

'That should deal with your wounds, mortal,' she said crisply, Thranduil nodding approvingly at her side. 'Your head wound will leave you with some lingering pain, but there was no blood. Your mortal healers will no doubt know what to give you for that,' she added, seeming to be hinting at something. Thranduil stopped nodding, his expression suddenly hardening as he turned to look at his subordinate, who met his gaze stubbornly, with a touch of defiance that reminded Bard a little of Sigrid when she was trying to get him to do things for his own good.

 

A minute of this and Bard shifted uncomfortably in the awkward silence before Tauriel finally turned away and got to her feet. He was starting to notice how cold he really was. They'd obviously made some effort to warm him up although he couldn't see any evidence of a fire, and his clothes were still a little damp.

 

Thranduil's mouth thinned as he gazed after the retreating mermaid. Waiting until after she had slipped beneath the waters in the cave, Bard tilted his head. 'She didn't seem happy about that.' It wasn't a question, but Thranduil shook his head slightly.

 

'No,' he said, turning to face the human before him once more, his expression tinged with regret even as it was set with determination. 'She did not. But she is not King.' He sat on one of the flatter rocks next to the water near Bard, curling his legs elegantly underneath him to accommodate the position, and added, 'She did not know Girion as well as I, and then the lake worsened with the corruption of the mortals from the town and so did her opinion of them.'

 

Bard eyed him warily. 'And yours?'

 

'Girion was different,' Thranduil said, meeting his eyes steadily. 'He fought often against those who would dump their filth and pollution.' The King's mouth twisted then, his expression hardening. 'Things change.'

 

'It's been over a hundred years since Girion died, you realise,' Bard pointed out, irritated. He was very well aware of his own powerlessness against the civil authorities of Esgaroth without being compared to a man long since dead. 'It's not as though anything he did stuck,' he added, and if there was a tinge of bitterness to his tone, Thranduil didn't call him out on it. The merman merely shrugged, eyes still on Bard, who found himself unable to look directly at him.

 

Bard stood, the stiffness of muscles of his muscles, combined with the cold he still felt, making it more ungainly than he would have liked in the presence of ethereal, not to mention good-looking, royalty. Stretching carefully, feeling every one of his cuts and scrapes and the back of his head still throbbing painfully, he turned his thoughts towards his children, worrying no doubt, and how long it would take him to get home.

 

Although the light had dimmed somewhat with Tauriel's absence, the light of the merking was still plenty enough to see the edges of the tiny cave by, the shapes of the shadows cast by the few stalagmites and stalactites danced across the roof and walls with every small shift he made. Bard watched in fascination for a bit, his discomfort temporarily forgotten until something bright and unnaturally-coloured caught the corner of his eye. A small heap of sad, tattered fluorescent orange and buckles was cast to one side. As Bard picked it up to examine it more closely, he saw the long tear in the seams stretching from one side until the other and his mouth thinned, heart beating against his chest as he realised the implications of the damage. He'd checked everything as was his routine, and the jacket had definitely been whole the day before he'd set out.

 

'I'm not an expert on human technology, 'the merking's voice came low and serious behind him. 'But even I am fairly sure that a... lifejacket, is not meant to be thus damaged.'

 

Bard's jaw set and his eyes flashed as he stared at where the seams had been taken apart and then loosely tacked together, judging by the traces of stray thread, to try and hide it until the crucial moment. No wonder he'd sunk like a stone.

 

Crumpling the fistful of now useless fabric in his hand, he turned to Thranduil.

 

'I need to get back,' he said, voice hoarse. 'Now.'

 

 


End file.
